Contrary to what most people might think, I do not hate Nice Guys. Although Bad Guys may seem more appealing and exciting with their confident swagger, their humorous pick-up lines and their constant fascination for danger and all things forbidden, it is a rare occasion for them to be able to provide that feeling of being safe and the security offered by a Nice Guy.
Some Nice Guys do seem bland. Boring. Vanilla. But there are a selected few who can come up with one-liners that will make you laugh so loud that it makes you think that Vanilla might not be so bad after all.
Airsoft has that talent.
Hence, I decided to crush on him.
I crush you, Airsoft.
The thing when I have crushes is that I become a dumber version of myself. I clam up, avoid looking at him and pretend that he doesn’t exist at all whenever the person I am crushing on is around. I end up talking to myself, flirting in my mind and making up witty conversations with him in my head.
In short, I become a loser.
For example, I had been given two free tickets by my aunt to a concert by Sponge Cola. I love Sponge Cola and I’ve always wanted to watch them live. Because I lived in a small city where concerts by famous rock bands occur every once in a blue moon, I figured this was the perfect opportunity for me to finally watch them perform live.
I asked my sister if she wanted to go with me. She said she has outgrown these things. Heller! I’m two years older than heer! I didn’t want to ask one of my female classmates to go with me. I knew them well enough that they still lived by the highschool girl bathroom mentality – they will only go, if the rest of the group will also be going. I didn’t bother asking one of my highschool classmates because I assumed they would most likely be unavailable. They had work and babies and stuff.
The perfect person to ask to go to these things would have been a boyfriend, in this case, Philip, but of course, he was indisposed in an out of town school activity. Even if he was in town, I would doubt he would be able to go with me anyway. Midge wouldn’t allow him.
So, I figured, the second best person to invite would be a close friend, a boy, who has his own wheels, and preferably someone I wouldn’t mind to be seen dating.
Airsoft.
As soon as the realization hit me, my palms started sweating. I debated whether I should text him as early as morning to ask him if he would like to go with me or whether I should wait for the opportunity later to ask him in person since I would be seeing him anyway earlier in the evening because the whole class was invited anyway to attend an RTD* at some popular restaurant. Because I was a coward, I opted to forego the moment and ask him later instead, when we would finally be alone in his car, since I was the one he usually drops off home the last.
I felt nervous about asking him out. To do so would cement the fact that I wanted our friendship to move forward. It would show him that I was interested in him as more than friends. I started daydreaming about the series of events that might happen once we go out together to that concert. We would have to keep the date to ourselves and not let any of our friends know so as to avoid the awkward teasings and tauntings of the barkada. He would probably start picking me up from the house and we’d be going to school together. At first, when our friends start sensing that there was something going on between us, they would tease us mercilessly, them pushing him so that he’ll trip and stumble towards me or flat in his face in the ground infront of me or them quickly lifting my skirt and letting him see the color of my underwear as if we were all still in Grade 3. Eventually, our friends will get used to seeing us together and the teasings will stop and we will become just another one of the boring annoying couples in class.
I took great care in dressing up that night. A black silky spaghetti-strapped shirt under a black knitted sweater, jeans and stilettos for additional height. My make-up was impeccable. I was dressed to impress but casually enough so as not to look as if I was trying too hard. When I arrived at our meeting place, the usual gang was already there, minus Airsoft. I figured he was late, and inquiring about his whereabouts would have made my friends suspicious, so I no longer asked. I hitched a ride with Naruto instead in his motorcycle and together with the rest of my classmates, we all drove towards the RTD*.
The RTD* started with Airsoft still being a no-show. A couple hours later, with our stomachs fully satiated and our brains refreshed with knowledge about the current treatment modalities for Hypertension and the recommendations based on JNC-7, the RTD* ended and we spent a couple of minutes taking pictures of each other. In the end, hitched a ride in SoSexy’s boyfriend’s car along with the rest of my female classmates and I ended up being the first one to be dropped off.
Suffice it to say, Airsoft did not show up at all.
Tang ina mo, Airsoft.. You stood me up before I could even ask you out.
Leche ka, BREAK NA TAYO.
— RTD – Round Table Discussion – a free lecture discourse set-up by medical representatives and their companies for physicians for the purpose of promoting new products and providing a Powerpoint lecture of the latest recommended management protocols for a certain disease entity. Usually begins with an abundant buffet-style dinner and/or snacks and ends with an open forum for any question pertaining to the prior given lecture. May or may not include a raffle draw of promotional give-aways or an acoustic band for entertainment.
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Truthfully speaking, in terms of attraction factor, I have learned to categorize men into three particular categories:
Hooters Man – one who prefers big breasts
Junk Man – one who prefers big buttocks
Tits & Ass Man – one who prefers a combination of both
As such , I have noted that most guys who end up liking me fall into the first category, the Hooters Man, because of, obviously, my unfortunately inappropriately-sized rack.
It is not, as most people would think, a blessing but rather, a curse.
I am not quite comfortable with these twin mountains infront of me. Having been brought up as a semi-tomboy during my childhood years, I wasn’t quite as happy that I got these so-called blessed gifts to all women. And at first, these weren’t really as annoying to me as they used to be. It wasn’t until I started medical school when I realized that I was actually more well-endowed than the rest of the girls I was hanging out with. For one, none of my ex-boyfriends mentioned it and even my boyfriend that time didn’t say it to my face. I noted this particular development after one of my younger classmates in medical school started calling me “Mommy [Mistress].”
I was scratching my head in obvious confusion one particular time and decided to ask FunnyBoy. “Why does Naruto keep calling me Mommy?”
He laughed. “You don’t know why?”
“No. Is that like some form of endearment to him?”
“I’m not even sure if I should tell you.”
“Oh, come on! I keep hearing him say it all the time. I feel like it’s some kind of joke that only the inner circle knows about and I’m not even in on.”
FunnyBoy laughed. “It’s the Mommy thing, [mistress]. It’s like Naruto wants you to take care of him, like a mother. And to do all the things that mommies do to their babies.”
“To babies?” Now I was more confused than ever. “Like what?”
“You really have no idea?”
“Oh, come on. Now I’m curious. I have a feeling I probably won’t like what I’m going to hear but tell me anyway.”
“You know, breastfeeding… Since you have, you know…” and he pouted his lips and pointed them to the direction of my chest.
Needless to say, I was mortified.
I couldn’t look at my Mommy-calling Naruto for some time. I asked Rockstar, who was my boyfriend that time, about the incident and he just grinned at me sheepishly.
“But [mistress], you do have big breasts. That’s why I feel so darn lucky having you,” he remarked patriotizingly.
I, of course, refused to accept that I had big breasts and proceeded to do the Meryl Streep thing in “Bridges of Madison Country” that night as I stripped off all my clothes and looked at my naked self infront of the mirror.
Shoot.
I did not want big breasts but it looks like I’m stuck with them, indefinitely.
I sighed. I can’t really understand why men are endlessly fascinated with breasts. It’s really just all ducts, lobules and fats. Lots and lots of fats. I find it strange how men do not grow out of their inborn fascination for breasts even after they have gotten over the breastfeeding phase during their infancy. I would have thought it would be incredibly a sexual turn–off if a man:
a) remembers that their own mothers and grandmothers have them
b) remembers that his father once provided sexual gratification to their mother by using them for foreplay
c) ergo, remembers that his father and mother had sex at one time or another
d) remembers that he used to be breastfeed through one of his mother’s own breasts
e) thinks that one day their woman’s breast will droop and sag
If you look at it that way, I would think that a man should be disgusted with breasts since it would be a reminder of a particular time in their life when they were still fragile, more vulnerable and less masculine.
So, guys, what do you think?
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There is a certain uninhibited feeling when riding in a motorcycle with the boy. The speed, the feel of the wind in your face, your hair a cascade of black waterfall dripping on your shoulder… it is simply poetry in motion.
I moved my body to his closer and his leg brushed with mine. Our denim was but a mere strip of cloth that did nothing to mask the heat radiating from our bodies.
I wanted Naruto.
I lusted for him.
I’ve been curious about him since our first of year of medical school when he was still courting me.
But he was still a child.
Albeit, a beautiful one.
And I could not find myself attracted by the conversations regarding Anime, his penchant for breaking his promises and his lack of good follow-through.
So I regale myself to contentment with our motorcycle rides, where with every brake of the clutch, I let my bountiful breasts brush against his back, as if somewhat accidentally.
As if I never knew that he deliberately presses the brake too soon and too hard.
And for a brief moment, I made him feel like a man.
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